Damn him.

Damn him and that Chanders bitch. Damn them straight to Hell. Where they belong. Where all fags belong.

Where you belong.

God, why does he have to look so good in that tux? With his hair gelled back and that lavender bowtie. He's radiant.

Fucking faggot.

His skin looks so soft. God, I want to touch it. Touch him.

You're going to Hell.

Snap out of it, Hobbs. You're here with your girlfriend. You want to touch her, not Taylor.

Want to rip his shirt off, want to see him naked, want to—

No.

Stop watching him, Hobbs. You're not helping anyone by watching him. If anyone catches you ogling that fag, you'll be done for.

Now that Chanders bitch is pointing at something. Jus—Taylor turns and looks at whatever it is, smiling that smile that lights up his whole face.

He's so beautiful.

Fucking faggot. You'll burn with him. It's sick, you're sick, Hobbs, disgusting.

Someone's walking over to him. Someone tall and mysterious. And handsome.

Stop it.

They only have eyes for each other. It'd be sweet if it weren't so revolting.

A new song starts, and they cut through the throng of people until they're in the center of the dance floor. I can only see Taylor's back—what a wonderful backside it is—and he's swiveling his hips, dancing in small steps in place.

So fucking hot.

God, I bet his ass is so tight—

No.

They're dancing, sweeping across the floor gracefully. They look so perfect. And they're so happy.

Pull it together, Hobbs.

Wait.

They're kissing.

Taylor has his hand down my pants, on my dick—feels so good. I want him to go faster, grip tighter. Want to kiss him, want him so badly—

I have to get out of here.

I can't get them out of my head. Fucking Taylor and his fucking boyfriend fucking making out on the fucking dance floor at the fucking prom. Faggots.

You're the faggot, Hobbs.

No.

You want him for yourself. You wish you could hold him, kiss him, fuck him.

God, I want him.

No.

Just stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about his hand on Taylor's waist, so close to his ass—that ass. Want to pound into it, fuck him so hard—

No.

I hate him. This is his fault. Fucking Taylor. He's the one making me feel like this, think like this. I'm not a fag. Taylor is. Taylor and his goddamn boyfriend.

I need to get rid of him. If Taylor's gone, then the feelings, the thoughts, all of it, will go with him.

I have to get him out of my head. Can't stop thinking about that day—fuck, it was so good—can't stop staring at him.

I need to make him go away.

The bat is heavy in my hands. It's never weighed so much before.

Taylor and his boyfriend are kissing again.

I hate both of them. I hate them so much, want them gone, want them to hurt, want to hurt them—

I swing.

Taylor's on the ground. He's bleeding. His boyfriend is frantic, saying his name over and over again.

Justin. Justin. Justin. Justin Justin Justin. JustinJustinJustinJustin. JustinJustinJustinJustinJustinJustinJustinJustin—

It won't stop.

I can't get him out of my head.

Justin.